Armand and His Angel
by Kisses on the Steps
Summary: When Armand St. Just expresses his unrequited love for the Marquis de St. Cyr's daughter through a harmless, simple love poem, he does not expect any consequences. The punishment he receives will change his and Marguerite's lives forever.
1. Chapter 1

**So because I LOVE Armand suddenly, I realized I have not read anything regarding Armand's beating when he was a naive lover. And because Orczy changed his age a couple of times, I am going to compromise and say he was about 4 years older than Marguerite, so poor Armand will be a helpless admirer of 24 years in 1788. This will be one or two chapters of course, because that would be a little overwhelming for me, juggling all these stories that are swirling in my head at once, but I wasn't feeling up to writing another chapter for my other SP story,The Beginning. It just came to me last night, so enjoy, review and favorite!**

To Mademoiselle Angele St. Cyr

A male's heart cannot describe foolishness.

Her heart, beauty,and nature are so noble,

that just taking her in makes me breathless.

And I know I am but a man,quite dull.

I can only hope she understands me

through the feelings of a poor admirer

that I see her as my Aphrodite

the goddess of beauty, charm and ardor

and yet, so sweet in innocence is she,

that I am lulled every time by her

to sneak one more glance, to hear one more word.

I can't say my words to her without slur

Despite all my studies she feels awkward

Her smile entrances, her laugh is a bell

Why do you have to bear your name so well?

Your most ardent, truest admirer,

Armand St. Just

"Do you think I should send it?" Armand stared at the paper, anxiety running through him like a knife. Marguerite looked up from her book with a smile.

"Gad, is my brother in love?" she teased, and went back to reading. It was something Armand had given her as a gift a few weeks ago, and she had been reading and rereading it in her spare time.

He watched her for a moment. She was scarcely past twenty, but her child-like features were entrancing to the male's eye. There was always something musical in her voice and an air of elegance in her manner one did not always find in a bourgeois woman. "You like that, don't you?"

She held up the book, "This? Of course! Rousseau's works are always fascinating. I cannot help but feel this... this _burning_ sensation that he is true. Thank you again, for giving it to me." She went back to reading and Armand went back to nervously staring at the page. Would she laugh in his face, or return his affections?

"Do you think she likes me?"

"Really Armand, that is something an insecure ten year old boy would ask," Marguerite did not raise her head out of the pages.

"I know," he laughed, "I _am_ unsure of myself. I have as much experience with this as a ten year old boy. At least they have an excuse." Marguerite did not say anything so Armand continued. "You have experience with men. They admire you and propose to you _every_ day." She sat up abruptly and shut the book, somewhat unnerved by that. She always hated to talk about the situation regarding her hundreds of suitors.

"They are men I hardly know, Armand. And I do not see how this will help you win that St. Cyr girl's affections. In my opinion she is too pompous for you." Marguerite straightened a little, as if the idea of the aristocrat made her want to act like one herself. If any first class guests had come in and seen Marguerite slouched on the couch, they would have sniffed and turned their heads at her. Like a stinging bee, he knew Angele would do the same thing, but no one could be perfect! It was just her caste, the way she had been raised. Surely, she would see him as who he really was at heart, not just what class he belonged to.

"You judge her too harshly my sister, her eyes twinkle when she laughs and her smile is angelic and-"

"How fitting," Marguerite sniffed. "She is like an angel, you say," her voice turned sarcastic and Armand knew he was in for a witty rebuke. "Well, beware the evil behind smiling eyes, Armand."

"So you think it unwise to give it to her?" He twiddled the scrap between his forefinger and thumb, ready to crush it if Marguerite said so.

"I cannot make the decision for you. If she deserves the apple of your eye," Marguerite sighed and walked to him, "go ahead. Just beware, her father is more ruthless than she." Armand took her hand.

"She is not ruthless! And her father isn't _so_ bad. Just a little medieval."

"Just like the rest of his caste." Marguerite strode to her place on the couch as Armand stared after her. What was her advice? After settling in with the book, she sighed. "I'm just warning you. Angele and her family may not be what they appear." For a few minutes, Armand gazed at the decorated red and bronze rug. It was from Italy. Marguerite fell in love with it somewhere and had thought he would like it. Of course he smiled and thanked her, but it was just... _so_ ugly. The colors and design must have been hundreds of years old. "It's from the _Renaissance_, Armand. I know you like anything from that time period, so it reminded me of you." Obviously, he did not like everything from the Renaissance, at least not rugs. The only reason he kept it was to remind himself of Marguerite's thoughtfulness, even though she was not always right all the time.

He looked up and she flipped a page, scouring the words on the page like a starving dog. "Would you..." he rubbed his neck, "If you received a poem like this, would you admire him back?"

She sighed for being disturbed. "Let me read it." He ducked his head and handed it to her. He watched her face, ready for her to laugh out loud, but all she did was cover her heart with her slender hand and look back up with awe. "If I received this... I would be flattered Armand! My opinion would then be reviewed thoroughly by examining what I already know of his character, opinions and personality. Most times, they talk in big words but are empty-hearted." She stood and touched his cheek with her hand. "Of course, my little papa, you are not one of those dull-headed men." Armand felt over-joyed to see that his sister, one of the strictest women when it came to suitors, approved of his manner of confession. Life had never looked so hopeful and happy until then. He stood and grabbed his coat, kissing her on the cheek before almost running out the door.

"Don't forget your hat!" She called to him. He rounded back and grabbed it, smiling gratefully at her. "or your head..."she muttered before plopping down on her seat again, finally free to read her Rousseau.

**Hey so I would have more for you, but my tablet didn't save the rest, so next chapter will be fairly longer with that added part. Yeah I was pretty mad...remember to review. It actually really helps me so much!**


	2. Chapter 2

**The play, Cato, A Tragedy, was written by Englishman, Joseph Addison, in 1712. It held a Republican theme, and also virtue, youthful love and loyalty. It was George Washington's favorite play and he had it performed during the winter in Valley Forge to increase morale. The lines Marie and Marguerite say are from Scene 6 of Act 1. Enjoy this chapter, and review/fav/follow! (you know you want to!)**

Armand could barely contain his luck as he strolled the streets of Paris almost seeing it in a new light. He wished the people he normally loved and tried to help would just get out of his way! Hags, merchants, barefoot children, and politicians crowded the narrow streets. If he didn't call on the St. Cyr home soon, he would have to wait until tomorrow, and he knew he could not wait so long, not after Marguerite's encouragement. Her warning did not even register in his mind about the Marquis' hate for plebeians or the rising bourgeois politicians. Angele had nothing to do with her father, she didn't even seem to be an aristocrat.

He realized he could not fight the people for a way through, so he turned onto a side street and was soon in the same neighborhood Angele lived in. He turned a a corner and saw the house. After another block, he was so entranced with the sight of that mansion, that he did not notice the lady turning the corner from the perpendicular road. He blinked and held her elbow to steady her. She smiled and his whole world lit up. It was Angele St. Cyr! All the words he had practiced in his mind beforehand betrayed and left him to just stare at her. She was beautiful and interesting and entrancing, and he realized only after a few seconds, his mouth hung slightly open.

"St. Just." She nodded, dusting herself off and then started to walk away.

"Mademoiselle," he caught up to her, "May I escort you home?" She smiled and nodded, making him tremble with nervousness.

"I actually," he started and then paused, trying to remember every intelligent word he learned from the university. He failed of course, this had always happened to him from the moment he first saw her. "I was on my to see you."

"You were?" She raised an eyebrow and Armand forgot to nod, only stared at her. She blushed and looked away.

"Yes," he stuttered. "I wanted to give you this." He opened his palm , revealing a sweaty piece of paper. She took it, but did not read it.

"Thank you St. Just." She did not look his way for the rest of the walk to her home. Instead of walking her to the door, Armand stopped where the path met the street. He kissed her hand with perfect grace and nearly passed out when she did not remove her hand out of his. It stayed there for at least 5 seconds after he had straightened. Then, she nearly fled down the path to her home, and opened the door, not looking back. Armand stared after her for while before coming to his senses. This was bad... he almost staggered away, trying to recover from these drunken effects.

If Marguerite had seen the exchange, she would have laughed and made him try again. He had meant to charm her and _then_ give her the poem. She would then read it and perhaps bless him with a kiss, but no, he had made a fool of himself and failed in everything he hoped for. She would not understand perhaps, what his intentions were, or why he felt that way. He peeled his eyes to the ground until he got back to Rue de Richelieu. He climbed up he apartment steps and was about to open the door when a large man came through it. He had dark hair and features which were momentarily enraged.

"Get out of my way," he muttered and pushed Armand. Halfway across the hallway, he stopped and then laughed, "You are coming to call on her too? Good luck boy."

"I am actually Armand St. Just, her brother. I don't think 'calling' is going to be a problem," he remarked. The stranger then stalked away and down the steps. Armand smirked and unlocked the door, stepping in. Marguerite was not in the parlor, and he checked the clock, she must have been preparing herself for her performance. He sat on the sofa and sighed, rubbing his eyes in anxiety and shame.

After a quarter of an hour, Marguerite swept into the room, pulling on her cloak and smirking at him. Her hair was done up in her curly do normal for performances. Armand feigned a smile and stood, meeting her at the door. He kissed her cheek and said, "You look beautiful tonight, Marguerite. It is no wonder that I run into men every day totally bewitched by you. Like that one suitor today."

"Oh Simon?"she snorted. "If you could call him a suitor at all."

"Why? Is he not suitable enough for you?"

Marguerite giggled and then asked, "Are you coming tonight? I am playing Marcia from _Cato_ for the first time."

"Your new role?"

"Yes! Marie and I will be the love interests." She looked so excited but he knew he would have to disappoint. The St. Cyrs could be in attendance, however slight that chance would be.

"I am sorry Marguerite, but I don't think I will be very sociable tonight."

"So your 'angel' rejected you?" Armand rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I don't want to talk about it, but let's just say I made a downright fool of myself."

"Oh, my poor little papa-daring to write a love poem to an aristo! What did she let you do in response? Kiss the dust of her feet?"

"Ha ha ha," he laughed sarcastically. "But I didn't see her reaction. She didn't read it in front of me."

"Why? Did you run away before she got the chance to?" She smirked and then opened the door. Armand sighed and leaned against the wall, trying not to show his reaction to her jest.

"Shouldn't you get going? Practice is at-"

"Seven, I know, but don't say I didn't tell you so about St. Cyr."

"Sure, now get going!" he shooed and then softened, "I know you'll do great tonight."

"How can you know the quality of my performance if you aren't there to witness it!" she called over her shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there to 'witness' your acting tomorrow night. Is that better?" She didn't answer or look back at him before leaving the hall of their apartment, even though he could imagine her expression- merry and amused.

* * *

When Marguerite entered the stage in Scene V, she could not help but blush as an applause resounded through the Comedie Francaise hall. She glided through her lines of Joseph Addison's _Cato, _as Marcia, daughter of Cato and love interest to Juba, the Prince of Numidia. Even though the play was originally English, it somehow held Republican themes, which was something impressive to Marguerite, and had held some media influence with the American colonies with their revolution.

With distaste though, she viewed Simon Mollan in the audience, scrutinizing each movement she made. When Scene VI came along, she got excited, for this was the part she loved most of Marcia. Marie, as Lucia, the daughter of Lucius, the Senator, asked her:

"Marcia, you're too severe: How could you chide the young good-natur'd prince, and drive him from you with so stern an air, a prince that loves and dotes on you to death?"

Marcia answered,"Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me. His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul speak all so movingly in his behalf, I dare not trust myself to hear him talk"

Lucia walked to her and looked out to the audience, "Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, And steel your heart to such a world of charms?" Marcia smiled and then met the eyes of Simon.

She replied, "How, Lucia! would'st thou have me sink away in pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, when every moment Cato's life's at stake? Caesar comes arm'd with terror and revenge, and aims his thunder at my father's head: should not the sad occasion swallow up my other cares, and draw them all into it?"

Lucia sighed and then turned away, "Why have not I this constancy of mind, who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature form'd me of her softest mold, enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, and sunk me even below my own weak sex: pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart." Marcia paused a moment before returning to her correct stage position. Hopefully, that would give Simon an idea.

* * *

Marguerite heard the knock on the dressing room door in between her and Marie's sniffles. They were always sensitive to the ending of _Cato,_ after all, it _was_ a tragedy. They had gone to their mirrors to wipe off the smeared eye makeup their tears had created. Marguerite could never hold them back whenever Cato chose to die honorably by committing suicide rather than be a slave of Caesar and see the death of Republican Rome. Just like philosopher's writings from the Age of Reason, the play's themes gave her the belief that she could choose between slavery underneath a caste system, or liberty and democracy.

"Mademoiselle St. Just?" It was Simon, holding a huge bouquet of roses to her at the doorway.

"Monsieur Mollan!" She stood and gratefully took them from him.

"I came to apologize Mademoiselle, for my behavior today. It was unacceptable." He looked ashamedly to the ground.

"I forgive you Monsieur, but I have not changed my mind," she laughed, "even with this ten pound bouquet of roses meant to _woo_ me."

"No," he laughed sheepishly. "They are congratulating you on your role, and as an apology."

"You liked my Marcia?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Though," he whispered, "I would have preferred to see more of Marcia rather than Cato." Marguerite blushed and set the roses on her desk.

"Thank you for the flowers, Monsieur Mollan. They are beautiful and I appreciate your attendance at my performance." He recognized his dismissal and kissed her hand, soon disappearing from the room. Marguerite could not meet Marie's gaze, full of humor and amusement.

Her friend quoted Lucia, "Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, And steel your heart to such a world of charms?"


	3. Chapter 3

Armand was the first to stand the next day as the curtains drew close. Others around him followed suit in a thunderous applause. He could not help but beam, as the whole audience gave their approval. The values _Cato_ held was inspiration to all of them, and he knew he could barely stand by and do nothing when they all had to wait for the men and women of title to pass through the doors as they left. He could see the disapproval of the play evident on their faces through their stony expressions. It took almost all his courage as the Marquis de Ct. Cyr and his wife passed by them, accompanied by two large menservants to smirk at the Marquis when he directed a disdainful glare towards him. Most of the people around him raised their chins and gave defiant stares to the _aristos_. The extravagance of the higher caste was finally through and the rest of them crowded through the narrow doors of the hall and out the front entrance. Armand turned away from the majority and sped down an adjacent hallway. He passed by one of the members of the cast and nodded his head, as most members of the troupe new him personally when he attended Marguerite's practices or performances. Marguerite's dressing room was shared with Marie Touquet, since both were competing for larger roles as the lead actress of the Comedie Francois. He knocked on the first door on the right of the hallway. Marguerite's voice called him in and he stepped in, finding his sister and Marie in their dressing gowns.

"Armand!" She flounce d to him, "What did you think?"

"Everything was wonderful," he embraced her and then pulled back, "-the actors, the story," he leaned in and whispered, "and_you-_were all beautiful."

"Thank you, but I feel as if I did better last night."

"Nonsense," he waved his hand, dismissing it.

"You always know I do better when I am nervous." She walked back to her desk and sat, starting to take out the pins in her elaborate hair-do, and watched him through the mirror, under lowered eyelashes.

"Oh stop trying to get me to praise you! You have enough men to do that already. What more could you want me to say?"

"Just one more time," she teased and grinned at him.

"Fine," he gave in, "You were brilliant." She turned to Marie and whispered something to her, making the other girl giggle.

"You are quite right Marguerite," she said in response, provoking Armand's curiosity.

"What, Marie? What does my sister say about me that makes you laugh?"

"She just said that she could wrap any man around her finger if she wanted, including her own brother!"

Armand frowned, not seeing what was so funny.

"Of course," the girl admitted, "Your sister made it sound so much more amusing. Anything she says makes me laugh, and I sound so dull when I am next to her."

"Marguerite has the tendency to be that way. I will be waiting outside when you are done, so hurry."

Marguerite sighed and turned back to her mirror and brushed through her hair. Armand sighed and shut the door. She was in one of _those _moods. He waited a few minutes before he started to pace, thinking about Marguerite, the whispered rumors of revolution, _Angele..._ He could not handle the heat anymore, as if he atoned for the perspiration of the backstage crew as they worked. The air was probably nice and cool outside, as autumn was coming on fast, especially at night. He stepped out into the dark alley. He sighed, like the icy air was a balm on his anxious heart. No note-of agreement, which would have satisfied all his dreams, or of unrequited love-he just wanted to hear her response. It ravaged at his heart with uncertainty. Perhaps Marguerite was wrong and Angele was offended by him! That could not do! He needed to find out, _now. _It was almost a matter of life and death for him; he could not wait a blasted moment more. He had to see her, and he suddenly forgot his promise to Marguerite, his legs moved on instinct and almost as if in a dream, he wandered to her house. There were few people on the road, except for a pair of men about twenty paces behind him. He was too wrapped in his own cares to notice any detail he passed by. He awoke from that dream when he stood at the beginning of the walk up to the St. Cyr home.

He took a step forward and was suddenly knocked off of his feet by a sudden blow to his gut. Armand could not breathe as his attackers bagged his head and lugged his helpless form over a burly shoulder. When he could finally gather his senses, he couldn't dismiss the awful scent of onions the burlap sack held. He absolutely detested onions, and his eyes grew puffy and teary. He tried to think of what he would do when they let him go, and tried to remember something of his schoolboy days, when he'd had to defend himself and occasionally Marguerite, when bullies would try to intimidate the orphans.

His abductors would probably waylay him out of the gates and kill him there. He was that fearful. He hoped Marguerite would be safe, now that she was to walk home without his protection. He rejected thoughts of his own safety and worried for his beloved sister, who really did love him with all her heart.

The sounds of the guards and his antagonists were muffled through the sack, especially with his clogged sinuses. The stench was just becoming unbearable when he was thrown to the ground, jolts of lightning sent through his joints. He could suddenly breathe freely again, the air like intoxicating flower perfume. He looked up and saw faces leering at him, and dread suddenly nipped at his gut. These men had attended the play with the St. Cyrs. Angele had told her family...

"What a worthless human being, Truard. He's barely worth the beating." Armand grabbed a handful of the gravel and tossed it into their faces. The leader swore and stumbled back, clawing at his eyes. It gave Armand time enough to stand up and ready himself.

There was another new man with the original two servants and they quickly attacked him. He blocked their hits meant to break his jaw, and ducked, punching Truard in the gut. The man collapsed while the ringleader recovered and stepped in for his friend. Armamd knew he couldn't beat all three, it would be only matter of time before he got behind on his defensive and they would pummel him to the ground, but he wouldn't give up, for Marguerite, not Angele St. Cyr. She hardly mattered anymore, it was family that mattered to him, his petit maman.

The extra man aimed for his face again, Armand blocked, but trying to do the same move, his opponent anticipated it and side stepped, making him stagger forward and become open to attacks. The two men pounced on it, their fists causing him to wheeze and clutch his side. He backed away as all three men ganged up together in an almost teasing game. Truard, breathing heavily with anger and his recent blow, lunged for Armand. They toppled onto the road, grunting as they hit the ground. Armand knew he was in for it after Truard's fingers found his neck. He tried to grab at the man's face, but he was to far away, and he felt the air flow in his body become blocked as he squeezed tighter and tighter. Desperate, Armand groped for anything around him of use and found a fist-sized rock, hitting Truard's head with it. The man's fingers and body slacked above him, and Armand pushed him off, surely shocking the other men that he had survived. They came at the same time towards him, despite the bloody, ominous rock in his hand. He gripped it as they came nearer and swung his arm at their heads, but the big man of the two blocked it quickly and grabbed hold of his wrist. He twisted it, Armand screamed, and subconsciously dropped the rock at the same time.

Then the attacker then snapped his arm. Armand screamed again, tears uncontrollably running down his face, blinding him to the attacks now being rained down upon him. Someone kicked his knees and he collapsed to the ground, landing on his broken arm. The sounds that followed were unearthly, and he hardly knew what was happening. There was pain everywhere, throbbing his head until it helped him faint in a way. The pain was too much for his body, and he felt as if he were slipping away. Black fuzz creeped into the corners of his vision.

He made a lame attempt, asking them to stop, but blood just streamed out and he thought he was experiencing silence. He fell back onto the ground and felt hot breath on his face. Half his mind was already asleep and the other half heard a panting voice say, "We should really put you out of your misery St. Just, but Mademoiselle St. Cyr wanted us to send her best wishes."

Armand felt something papery in his slack hand, and let go

of his consciousness. He was slipping away as the voice said again, "You should know your place now , boy. Aristocratic daughters don't court poor brothers of whorish actresses."

Everything was black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Man, I am finally done with this chapter! I've never written one so long, and I hope it isn't too boring. I tried to have a little humor in here, but this is a more serious chapter. Most of it is in Marguerite's PoV, and even though it was long, I enjoyed writing it. If you haven't yet, check out my one-shot and my other finished story! Review/follow/fav!**

Marguerite stepped out of the back door of the theatre, wrapping her cloak around her more tightly. She checked the alley, peering into the darkness for Armand. She ran her hand along the stone wall, keeping her balance in case of unseen pitfalls in the road.

"Armand?" She looked behind her with worry. Some sort of dread entered her heart. Something deep inside her told her there was something wrong. "Armand! I just finished up. Where are you?" No answer. She shook her head; he could have tired of waiting and left her to walk home alone in the night. She sighed and started off. She passed by a tavern where multiple men leered at her and yelled out cat-calls after her. She shivered and bowed her head even more, trying to bring herself less attention.

She turned a corner, and was almost to her apartment, when she ran into an old hag. She gasped as the woman grasped her arm with bony hands and cackled toothily. Marguerite swallowed nervously as the woman opened her other hand, palm up. She nodded to Marguerite's purse and squeezed her arm.

"Alright, Madame," Marguerite twisted her captured limb free and opened up her purse. After pulling some coins out, the hag hastily grabbed them and hobbled away on a cane. Marguerite sighed in relief and half-ran to her apartment building, finally safe from the nocturnal Paris streets. As she climbed the steps, she swore she heard someone behind her, and when she looked back, she realized it was her own imagination. Every creak made her jump. Though, finally, she made it to her apartment, unlocked the door and collapsed against it as she shut it. No, something had happened to Armand; he would never willingly leave her to walk the streets by herself.

She waited until the earliest rays of dawn to leave, she couldn't face the streets in the dark once more. She couldn't roam them aimlessly. It wouldn't do her or her brother any good. She paced the front entrance, thinking, scheming, brainstorming. She had many friends who knew her from the theater, perhaps they had connections!

Marguerite grabbed her purse and ran to the Theater once again. No one was there, and in fact, the doors were locked. She slumped against the door in hopelessness. How was she supposed to help her brother if she couldn't even find him? When a small man approached her, she didn't know if it was fate, or coincidence, for she barely believed in either two at the moment. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties with black hair, sunken dark eyes, and a long nose. His clothes, though completely black, held an air of wealth. She raised her brow quizzically at the stranger.

"The theater is not yet open, Mademoiselle," he informed, a smirk on his face.

"I know," she sighed, "I work here. I was just..." She stopped and stood straight.

"You were just...?"

Marguerite humphed and shook her head.

"If you work here, you _should _know when it is open. What is your name?"

She scowled and walked closer to him, taking pleasure that he had to look up at her to make eye contact. "If you are a man of wealth, what are you doing out at the crack of dawn? _I _am the actress Mademoiselle Marguerite St. Just. Who are you?"

He did a double take and then a quirky smile played around his mouth."Touché," he bowed and kissed her hand. "My pleasure, Mademoiselle St. Just. I am...Armand." His name reminded her of her brother, who _needed_ her at this dire hour. She realized that this was not the time for making a new acquaintance.

"My pleasure, as well sir, but I have matters to be attended." She passed him, going nowhere in particular, just away from the distraction.

"Perhaps I can assist you?" Marguerite stopped and looked back at him. He was definitely wealthy-he probably had more connections than any of her other friends.

She peered at him for a moment before sighing, "That would be very kind, Armand."

"What is your situation?"

"My brother," she sighed, "Armand St. Just. He is in trouble, and I don't know where he is!" She felt her emotions and her volume raise as she spoke. Armand looked at her coldly, not intervening, or trying to comfort her.

"What type of trouble?"

"That's the problem. I don't _know,_" She breathed for a moment, forcing her Latin blood to stop boiling over. The man was silent, just watching her, almost as if he could see into her soul. It unnerved her too much to be a good thing.

"I am assuming," Armand finally stated, "that he is not in trouble with the law."

"No."

"He doesn't gamble?"

"Of course not. He is a scholar. He-"

"Wait, are you and your brother relatives of _Louis St. Just_?"

"Yes," she sighed, not really wanting to mention her hot-headed cousin. Even though he had been a sponsor for her job at the theater, he was giving Armand a rough time at the University, mocking their situation, and she guessed, plenty of other humiliating comments that Armand had chosen not to tell her, knowing what her defensive reaction would be.

"Well, any scholar can get into debts."

"Not when it is _my_ brother," she informed. She didn't know what she would do if Armand had gambled away the money they both had worked for.

"Then, what trouble did he get into? You can't disappear if you aren't in some type of dilemma."

Marguerite pondered for a moment, for anything recent, and caught on the memory of his anxiety of presenting his love poem to Angele St. Cyr. Her blood boiled at the thought of that pompous _aristo_ tattling to her father of the harmless piece of paper given to her by a commoner. With horror, she realized that _she_ was the reason Armand was missing. _She_ had encouraged him to deliver, even despite her better judgement.

"I think I know what happened to him, or who took him," she gripped his hand with a death grip.

"Who...how?"

"The Marquis de St. Cyr," she said with simple, utter, loathing. "My brother," she started, feeling ashamed, "he admired the daughter, and sent her a note proclaiming his affections."

"And...? What does that have to do with your brother missing?"

"Do you not know members of that class? They hate people like my brother and I. Armand could dare to look upon that girl's face and now, I believe, that awful man has somehow punished my poor, innocent brother." She clutched his long fingers and looked up at the man, tears in her childlike blue eyes, and the depths of sorrow evident in them could cause any to pity her situation, even a cold man like the one in front of her. "Sir, if you have any compassion, please, _help me." _

A stony heart melted at her plea, and Monsieur Armand placed a surprisingly warm hand on her forearm. "Mademoiselle. I will do whatever is in my power to find your brother and assist him in any way possible, whether it requires a doctor or a lawyer."

"Oh thank you, Monsieur Armand. You are very kind."

"I think I have an idea, Mademoiselle, of where to search for your brother." He started ahead, leaving her shocked. Paris was full of limitless options. She just hoped...she could not bring herself to think that her beloved brother was dead. If he was, she would feel it, wouldn't she? Marguerite shook her head, she was clueless on where to start, and if this acquaintance she had created knew of a place to start, why not?

* * *

Marguerite's legs ached, but Monsieur Armand still nimbly strode a few paces in front of her. They had been walking for hours, inquiring at gates, doctor's homes, in the slums and in the rich neighborhoods, but with no luck. The problem with their situation was that they didn't entirely know what they were looking for. Armand could have been beaten, kidnapped, or even..._no._ Marguerite could not admit to that possibility. By the minute, she physically grew wearier, but mentally became more enraged. Part of it was aimed at her brother, for being foolish enough to fall for a nobleman's daughter who was _just_ as stiff-necked as her father. The rest was aimed at St. Cyr, for it was his fault she had to go through this sorrow and fatigue of worrying about Armand.

The sun was high, and her stomach was aching from lack of food and water. The last meal she had eaten was perhaps lunch the day before, she could not quite recall anything from the day before. Today felt like a whole lifetime. She tried to ignore it, but the man next to her finally noticed a loud grumble that could not be hidden through small talk. He grinned and lead her to a tavern, where he ordered for wine to revive them and a meal of bread and cheese. They sat in silence until the wench came back with their food.

"You don't have to accompany me, Mesieur. I can inquire by myself from this point." She felt she had intruded on his business he would've attended to that day, and the humiliation of losing her brother because he had admired a young woman of title was eating her alive. She really didn't want this man's pity.

Armand put down his food reluctantly and pulled out a snuff box. She watched as he placed it on his fist and inhaled, a habit becoming more and more popular with the elite circles. "Mademoiselle," he continued, blinking rapidly. Marguerite smiled inwardly, apparently, he wasn't used to the effects yet, "It would hardly be the actions of a gentleman," he stopped, coughing and sneezing, finally recovering and recomposing his habitual serious expression, "if I let you wander around Paris with no guide or escort." His voice was dry and she could tell he was struggling.

"Perhaps," she smirked, "it would be rude to abandon the man who has helped me all day, when he is in his _own_ dire need of keeping down his snuff."

His eyes narrowed at first, and she feared he had not understood her, but he soon cracked a smile and chuckled. "I guess it is a nasty habit, Mademoiselle. It doesn't really do me any good," he admitted. They were silent for the rest of the meal, and Marguerite soon yearned to have more fill her stomach. It seemed she had awakened a sleeping giant, for as they set off again, after Armand paid the wench, her stomach voiced its hunger for more sustenance.

He led her to the gates near Rue de Belleville, where he suddenly stopped and sharply took his breath.

"What is it Mesieur?" She urged, tugging on his arm.

"I don't know why I haven't though about it before," he muttered in an awestruck voice.

"Dieu, my friend, tell me what you have discovered!"

He finally turned to her. "Mademoiselle, we have been searching for your brother within the walls."

"Yes I know, and it hasn't got us anywhere at the moment."

"Exactly," he remarked, his dark eyes flashing, "What if he was waylaid out of the gates through the permission of some bribed soldiers? If they beat him so badly-"Marguerite involuntarily whimpered and covered it with her hand, but not before Armand looked up at her with marked sympathy.

"Do not worry. I will get your brother the help he needs."

"I know," she lowered her lashes, "I am just so distressed that I don't believe if I can handle this for one second longer. To _not_ know is the worst anxiety."

"Mademoiselle St. Just. The Marquis would never order a man to death for this small trespass. He would know what a foolish action that would be. Your brother _is_ alive. I can assure you that."

"You aren't saying that to help me feel better?"

"No, I'm not. I am most sure of my theory." His thin hands squeezed her shoulder, making her look down at him abruptly. Here was a man whom she could rely, a _real_ friend, who didn't back-stab her when she wasn't looking, whose interest was her own. She pardoned his peculiarities, for his loyalty was shocking to her, giving it to someone he had just met hours before.

"Then _what_ is your theory?"

"I suggest we search the area and villages around the gate that is closest to the theatre. That _is_ where you saw him last?"

"Well, I saw him last in my dressing room, and I am afraid I upset him in my mood. He said he would wait for me in the alley outside. When I was finished, he wasn't here."

"Let us go back to the theatre and retrace his steps." He held onto the crook of her arm, as if he knew she was feeling faint. Her legs felt like lead as she dragged them to follow Monsieur Armand. Without knowledge of time or the space between distance, they walked through Paris, full of beggars and hungry, filthy children, as all the laborers were working at mid-day. Soon, she found herself back at the alley of the theatre, back where she started on this adventure, or more adequately, this affliction. He muttered under his breath, pacing back and forth as Marguerite leaned for support against the building.

"Come," he finally said, "Mademoiselle. They must have dragged him this way."

"My brother is not weak, he would have tried to fight them off."

"I suggest that there were multiple men attacking him. They could have gagged him, or even threatened him."

"Threatened him with what?"

"_You_ were still in there; they could have forced him to cooperate, otherwise they would have come in and hurt you."

"Would they really have done that?"

"Maybe," he shook his head, "I don't know. It might have happened."

"It's our only option. We need to get to the nearest gate."

"The problem is, Mademoiselle, this theatre is almost in the center of Paris. They could have dragged him to half a dozen gates without being unreasonable."

"So, we need to think about another quality of my brother." Armand nodded, looking at her earnestly while she wracked her overworked brain for memories. She sputtered, frustrated as her mind was blank. "I'm sorry Mesieur. I can't think. I don't remember anything about last night, not after today."

"Mademoiselle St. Just!" His voice was sharp and cold, much like when she had first seen him. She looked at him through her heavy eyelashes, spilling with tears. "Your brother may be counting on us to find and save his life! Think back to last night, and just forget about today." She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to find the relief and sadness she felt after the play was over. Her happiness that Armand enjoyed it, and the giddiness she always got when she performed well, with the suitors and admirers that were no doubt bound to follow.

"Were there any guests that stood out to you as you performed?"

"No," she shook her head, remembering the lights shining on the stage were more bright last night than ever before, so she couldn't make out any faces. "It was too dark in the crowd. I couldn't see anything."

"What happened after the performance?"

She crinkled her eyebrows in concentration. "I changed and was wiping off my make-up. Armand knocked and I guess I made fun of him in front of my friend. He said he would wait for me, but he wasn't in the hallway when i came out. Someone told me they had seen him go out the back by the alley. Now," she opened her eyes. "you already know this."

"Yes, but I know now, of what he was thinking. He was perhaps, angry, at you-" A sob escaped Marguerite's throat, causing him to clutch her arms, "Mademoiselle?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that if he is...,"she choked on the word and found another, "mortally wounded, his last memory of me would be of me jesting him. I can't stand to think of it."

"He is _not _dead. You will have long years with your brother yet." His eyes were black from the shadows of the alley, and she could not help but notice the fervor in his tone, as if he really believed his words. If she could not rely on her own faith, she would on this fellow's.

"Alright, now continue on...before we lose daylight." Surprisingly, the day had flown by. The sun was lower in the sky, the late rays shining everything in gold and beauty, even in the cruel world they lived in.

"He was angry," he glanced at her hesitantly, "at you, and you say he is in love with Angele St. Cyr. Is this love unrequited, or does she feel love for him?"

"I don't think she was raised to see him anything higher than a lapdog, but I don't think she had sent a message to him yet."

"Her message to him was his abduction," he remarked, making her flinch. He could be cold when he wanted to.

"Monsieur, my brother...when he loves, he loves fervently. He is restless. He cannot stop thinking about her, day or night, working or idle. His whole thought process is consumed and altered by this ideal."

"Idealistic follies never last," he smirked. "But this has helped me. He was probably thinking about her, needed fresh air, and went out here."

A sudden thought appeared to Marguerite. "Could he have tried to see her?"

"Your brother?" He was incredulous, "I doubt it."

"This is something Armand would do. He would have gone himself to try and find out her answer. If it is one thing my brother hates, it's anxiety."

"I think he shares that with his sister," his eyes glistened in the shadows before Marguerite cleared her throat.

"He could have gotten abducted there, if he angered St. Cyr with his presence."

"Well," Armand paused dubiously and then sighed, "I don't think it's very possible, but what lead do we have other than that?"

"Believe me," Marguerite responded, "I know this is what happened as much as you know he is alive." She walked ahead of him, taking the lead, even if her stiff muscles complained with the effort.

* * *

They were at the gate closest to the St. Cyr home, a gate they had already inquired at, but it didn't seem to matter if they tried again. This time, Marguerite thought the new change of guards would be more recipient to her requests than that of her cold, male companion.

They were young, a few years in between twenty and thirty, and she felt as uncomfortable as the night before when there were derisive comments made in her direction. They eyed her up and down and smirked as they saw her escort.

"Mademoiselle," the leader made a mock bow, his lips curving to a sneer.

"Monsieur," she forced herself to sound pleasant and flighty, something she knew would appeal to them. "I am searching for the men who were overseeing the gates last night. Do you know where we can find them?"

"You're looking at them," he moved close in front of her, to where she could feel his hot breath on her face. She looked over her shoulder and nodded to her comrade. He came forward next to the couple.

"Well, my kind soldier," she said gritting her teeth, "we are trying to find a friend who was perhaps mistreated. It would be _so_ generous of you if you could tell us whether you know about it." She forced a dazzling smile. The captain chuckled, glancing over his own shoulder at his fellow soldiers, and looked back to find a handful of coins being thrust to him by Armand.

"Look," he growled. "We already know you are brittle when it comes to bribes. We just need information." The captain was just as shocked as Marguerite to find that a man of Monsieur Armand's physique was intimidating, frightening even. "All we want to know is if a man was waylaid out of these gates by a few men." The look on the opposite's face betrayed everything.

"I'm-I don't take bribes from peasants," he stuttered.

"But you see, I am not a peasant," Armand spat, his face curling with rage, "I am the _Marquis de Chauvelin_, and I have more power than your imbecile brain could comprehend." Marguerite tried to keep from recoiling with bewilderment. The man was a nobleman? Armand, the little dark-haired fox? She was astonished, and a little betrayed. Perhaps it was partly due to the fact that the name struck a small arrow of fear in her heart. It was ridiculous of course, he hadn't done anything opposing his loyalty to her. He would be a good friend to her, perhaps from that day forward.

"I apologize," the soldier gulped and bowed properly.

"Now you do," the Marquis snarled. "Now tell me what I want to know."

"I don't know nothing! I swear by the Virgin Mary! We were just paid off by a couple of men last night to keep quiet."

"Keep quiet about what?" Marguerite could barely keep from tackling the man, as he turned white and swallowed, pausing for a few moments before speaking.

"They were carrying a body. A man's, I noticed. Is this the 'mistreated friend' you mentioned?"

"Yes," Marquis de Chauvelin said evenly. Marguerite could barely keep from collapsing. A_ body. _"What did this 'body' look like?" The soldier hesitated, making Armand Chauvelin pull out more coins, "My good captain, the more you speak, the more you're paid."

"They were dragging a man with a sack over his head. He was quite lifeless." A moan escaped Marguerite's lips. Armand couldn't-he was alive...he _had _to be. If he was dead, she would feel something, anything but this numbness in her chest, her hopelessness. Chauvelin sighed and delivered the money, before guiding her out of the gates, her body finally giving up its willpower to find her brother, not when there was a large chance there was no brother left for her to find.

"Marguerite," he used her name. She shuddered away from him, staggering.

"_You_ said the Marquis wouldn't kill him! And I believed you. You could have lied to me about that, just as you lied to me about your identity." She was sobbing, making petty attempts to get away from his bony grip on her arms. He let her fight it out until there was nothing left in her; she collapsed into him, and for a moment, she thought they would fall, for Chauvelin was a small man, and she was taller than most women her age, but he somehow kept them upright.

"Mademoiselle," he muttered, "I did _not_ lie to you about my identity. I just gave you the assumption that I was of the bourgeois class. You wouldn't have allowed me to help if you knew I was a Marquis. I was born of that class you despise, but my heart is with your class. I believe in people like your cousin and his friends. They fight for a just cause." Marguerite stared in awe. How had she found a man like this just by chance? "And as for your brother, I believe he could still be alive. They could have knocked him out, and he was unconscious at the time he passed the gates. Why would they sack him if he was dead? Think rationally Marguerite St. Just. I _know_ you are clever." His voice was cold and calculating again, as he half-dragged her along the road.

* * *

Armand St. Just woke up sometime during the day, light falling on him through a window. He saw an old man bending near his body, as if listening for something, and then he poured some burning liquid down his throat. He heard the screech of a child and immediately shut his eyes again, sleeping for a seemingly timeless space. He dreamed of nothing, but passed through darkness for miles. He could not force his eyes open, even if he wanted to awaken when he felt bursts of pain in his side or legs. He heard a familiar sound, a young woman pleading, and then a harsh voice, cutting through the air. It was that voice that made him open his eyes.

They were almost glued shut almost, and saw his sister, tears in her eyes, as she was over-joyed. He made moves to sit up, but immediately felt light-headed and dizzy. He lay his head back down on his pillow, but smiled at his beaming sister. "Armand, I love you _so_ much."

He put a hand with split knuckles on her cheek. There was dry blood from the night he had been beaten. It all came back to him now. His body was recovering, he guessed, but he wondered how Marguerite had found him, since he realized he had left her that night to brave the streets alone. He was more ashamed about that than anything else.

"Marguerite." he tried to say, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. She soon brought a chipped cup to his lips, filled with water, which he consumed within a few gulps. "How did you find me?" He found it only in him to whisper. She looked so relieved as he spoke, and he couldn't imagine how long she had worried about him.

"I had help from a friend," she looked behind her at a small man a few years past thirty. He had dark hair and sunken black eyes, which seemed to maliciously stare at him and Marguerite. He frowned, not recognizing this suitor.

"I don't believe I've met you Monsieur."

"No, but I have heard a lot about you from your sister," he replied, looking to her with masked admiration. "I am the Marquis de Chauvelin. We searched for you all day yesterday, and only found you about midnight last night. You are staying in the cottage of a elderly man named Gerrard whose daughter and her family resides, but we mean to take you back to Paris as soon as you are ready."

"I'm ready now."

"No, Armand. You must sleep again. You could barely raise your head up from the pillow. Give your body time to mend, it was badly hurt," she insisted. He sighed and turned his body a bit.

"Tell me how you found me, and perhaps your voice will give me lease to sleep." She started from the beginning of her walk balk to their apartment, up to them inquiring in every passing village for a beaten man until midnight, when they finally found him, being informed that he had been very close to death's arms that night. He somehow, went to sleep, as she rambled on and on about careless subjects.

* * *

Marguerite knew Armand would not approve, but she felt it was someway to get back at the Marquis and his family. She looked at the note in front of her, which would hopefully shame the St. Cyr family. She sighed, crossing out anything she disapproved of. It had to be perfect, and she knew she had this one chance to jest at the Marquis and his daughter. She only wished she could see the look on his face when he read it. It would have brought her enough satisfaction to last the rest of her lifetime.

"What's this?" Chauvelin came up behind her, peering over her shoulder at the note. He cracked a grin, and picked it up, re-reading it again. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Yes, I guess you could say you inspired me to do something." He rubbed his hands together, as if he were planning his own revenge. In some ways, she loathed and deeply looked forward to viewing that malicious, cunning smile. It struck a fear in her bones, like he were capable of something she did not expect, and yet he always stayed by her side, and that nagging feeling, like he was her enemy, would be pushed away until she met him next.

"They deserve it, Marguerite. Would you like me to send someone to deliver it?"

She hesitated, knowing that she could not go back once she did, but was there going back after what the Marquis did to her brother? "Yes," she sighed.

"You must be sure Marguerite."

"I am sure, Chauvelin. Just...do it."

He left to find a messenger. Armand was with her cousin, and he would never have to know. He had surely forgiven his oppressor, but Marguerite _surely_ hadn't.

**The End**


End file.
